


Because Of Westminster

by Alter



Series: Westminster [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John Likes To Swear A Lot, John is a Flirt, Lestrade is a Silver Fox, M/M, Mycroft Is A Nosy Bastard, Sherlock is Adorable and Awkward, Sherlock is too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alter/pseuds/Alter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After that night on Westminster Bridge, John realizes that his chance encounter with a stranger will change his life in more ways than he thought possible. </p><p>Sherlock doesn't believe in coincidences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because Of Westminster

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to my amazing Beta Squad, DoubleNegative and The_Warden, for pointing out my mistakes, fixing my comma splices, making everything flow better, and general hand holding when I needed it, and GowerStreet for the Brit-pick.

 

* * *

John treks through the snow, the toes of his shoes tunneling a path through the ankle deep white fluff. He thinks about the peculiar events that had prevented him from taking the easy way out as he steps up to the railing of Westminster Bridge. He looks down at the rushing water, and... he doesn’t want to jump. Maybe it’s just because he doesn’t want to prove that man, Sherlock Holmes, wrong, or maybe it’s the knowledge that there is someone out there who just might grieve even a little at his passing, but either way for the first time in a long time, John is very nearly content with just being alive.

John bounces on his toes a bit, grinning even as the cold nips at his cheeks. Sherlock Holmes, what a name. And yet meeting him had been the most exciting thing to happen since... well.

“‘Scuse me?” a voice interrupts his musing.

John turns, bristling and squinting against the snowflakes drifting down, “Yeah?”

The grey haired man holds out his hands in a calming gesture, “Are you alright?”

John blinks, grateful for the feeling of the solid stone railing at his back, his voice wary, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“‘Cause you’re alone on Boxing Day standing on a bridge looking down at the Thames,” the man says matter of factly.

“You a copper?” John hazards a guess.

“Detective Inspector actually,” the man admits easily, gaze cautiously alert.

John laughs. He shakes his head, laughing helplessly while the man gives him a look that says he thinks John has lost his mind, and hell, just maybe he has at that. “You-- hah-- you’re a bit late to be talking me off the ledge, mate.”

“What?” the man looks taken aback.

John shakes his head again, unable to keep the grin off his face. “Nevermind, I just remembered I need to do something important.”

 

* * *

 

John startles at the sharp knock on the door, loud after the quiet of his solitude. He sets aside his laptop, reaches over and silently opens the desk drawer. Pulling out his pistol, he crosses the room to stand to the side of the door, gripping the door knob with one hand, his gun a comfortable weight in the other. “Who is it?”

 “Sherlock Holm--”

 John yanks open the door before he can finish. “Come in, _please_.”

Sherlock looks down at the gun in John’s hand, raising an eyebrow as he steps inside. “Alright?”

“Hmm? _Oh_.” John shuts the door then moves around Sherlock to return the gun to its drawer. “Erm, sorry.”

“No, it’s perfectly understandable,” Sherlock murmurs, sharp eyes taking in the tiny bedsit before coming to rest on John, who stands beside the desk across the room, his shoulders hunched defensively.

"I know it’s not much--” John begins, looking down at his shoes.

“I want you to move in with me.” Sherlock says at the same time.

John blinks, incredulous gaze flying up to Sherlock’s face, “You what?”

“This dismal little bedsit is hardly conducive to a successful recovery and rehabilitation--” Sherlock hesitates as John raises an eyebrow. “What, what is it?”

“You,” John says, shaking his head. “You’ve known me for all of three days, and here you are wanting me to move in with you.”

“Yes, and it took all of three _minutes_ to determine your irreproachable character,” Sherlock counters. “I have my eye on a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it.”

“You could’ve said as much when I phoned this afternoon,” John points out wryly.

“You’d have almost certainly rejected the idea outright,” Sherlock dismisses. “Asking you in person increases the chance of a positive outcome by 38.9%. Furthermore, I wished to ascertain for myself the truly appalling quality of your current living condit--”

“Yes.” John interrupts him, before he can further downgrade the-- admittedly deplorable-- bedsit.

“-- which hardly befit a man of your--” Sherlock pauses, open mouth closing with a click of his teeth, and wrinkling his eyebrows adorably. “Really?”

“Yeah,” John nods. “Can’t be worse than here, can it?”

“I should hope that I have better taste than this,” Sherlock sniffs, but his eyes shine with with quiet pleasure at John’s acceptance.

 

_A few days later..._

 

John is on his way home from the shop round the corner, because Sherlock has done something with all the milk in the flat, _again_ , when a black car pulls up beside the pavement. John glances at it suspiciously as the driver gets out and opens the rear door.

“Doctor Watson, do get in the car,” says a man inside.

John steps back, looking around quickly, and the driver shifts so that John can see the outline of a pistol concealed under his jacket. He swallows, reaching for a gun that isn’t there.

A sigh emanates from the car. “Let’s not make this more difficult than we have to, shall we?”

John resignedly slides into the car, setting the paper sack with the milk in it on the seat beside him as the door is shut and the car sets off. His voice is quiet with anger, “Who the bloody fuck do you think you are?”

The man sitting across from him frowns in distaste. “Really, such language.”

“I’ll say whatever the bloody hell I want when I’m being fucking kidnapped, thanks.” John scowls, fists clenched tightly in his lap.

“I merely wished to meet privately with you,” the man says mildly.

“And your preferred method of doing so is to _kidnap me_ off of the goddamn street?” John growls. “Well, I suppose that's understandable. I mean, it's not as if you could have just, y'know _phoned me_ , or anything as fucking simple as that.”

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” the man inquires apropos of absolutely nothing.

John blinks, abruptly thrown for a loop by the unexpected line of questioning. “Excuse me?”

He sighs in a put upon fashion at having to repeat himself, “ _Sherlock Holmes_. The cohabitant of your new flat at,” he pauses to consult a small, black book in his hand, “221b Baker Street.”

“I _really_ don't think that is _any_ of your fucking business,” John says, deadly quiet.

“It could be,” the man insists smoothly. “I know you are not a wealthy man, Doctor Watson, and I would be willing to pay you a not inconsiderable sum for any information you might forward to me regarding Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why?” John asks suspiciously.

“I do worry about him. He’s so very fond of class A substances after all.”

John feels his blood run cold, and he hears himself ask as if from far away, “I beg your pardon?”

“Cocaine,” the man clarifies, then raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t he tell you?”

Sound comes rushing back all at once, and John takes a gulp of breath. “Let me out of this car.”

“We’re nearly to Baker Street,” he says, looking pointedly out the car window.

John feels as though his skin is burning all over with a crackling, cold fury. “I don’t care, stop the fucking car. _Right. Fucking. Now.”_

“You will think about my proposal?” the man asks as the car pulls up beside the pavement.

“I don’t need to think about it. I already know my answer,” John says, snatching up the milk.

“Oh?” the man asks as John shoves open the door.

John scrambles out of the car, then leans over, voice a quiet thunder. “ _No. Fucking. Way_.” He slams the car door and marches off down the pavement towards home, quiet anger burning in his veins.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock looks up from where he is draped bonelessly across the sofa, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny when John comes into the lounge. He watches as John very carefully shuts the door behind him with the restraint of one who would like nothing better than to slam it shut, then continues into the kitchen, where Sherlock can hear him set the milk on the table.

“Oh, John, you’re back. Excellent.” Sherlock stretches languidly, rising and following him. “I rather thought we might--” he pauses in the doorway of the kitchen.

John stands, head bowed, with his hands braced on the counter, knuckles white at the force of his grip, still wearing his coat and taking deep, shaking breaths.

Sherlock licks his lips, “Are you alright?”

John shakes his head minutely, glaring down at the counter.

“Is-- is there anything I can do?” Sherlock asks cautiously.

John shakes his head again, taking a shaking breath, “Give-- give me a minute.”

Sherlock frowns, but he pads back to the sofa and sits down, counting the seconds in his head and stealing glances at the kitchen.

Seven minutes and thirty-six seconds later than he’d said, John comes out of the kitchen, back and shoulders very straight as he shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up. He comes over to stand in front of Sherlock, the coffee table an expansive barrier between them.

“What happened?” Sherlock asks quietly.

John shuts his eyes tightly, then opens them. “Met someone on the way home. Made me get in his car.”

Sherlock slumps, sighing in resignation. “Black car? Horrid man with an umbrella in a pinstriped suit?”

John blinks in surprise, “Yeah, but how did you--?"

Sherlock leans forward, his voice sincere, “I _am_ sorry, John. That was my brother, Mycroft. He does so love to be dramatic.”

“Your _brother_.” John steps around the coffee table, gently nudging one of Sherlock’s knees so that he can move between them, and sits on the table, bracketed by Sherlock’s long legs, to look him in the eye.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the intimacy of the position that contradicts the look of determination on John’s face, “What did he tell you?”

John holds out a hand, palm up. “Give me your arm.”

Sherlock grows very still. “Why?”

“Sherlock, _please_ ,” John’s tone is firm, brooking no argument.

Sherlock sighs in resignation, rolling up the sleeve of his dressing gown and proffering his arm, underside up. He carefully doesn’t look at John.

John traces his fingertips over the tiny scars that mar the pale, delicate skin of Sherlock’s inner elbow, somewhat gratified to see that none of them appear to be very recent. His voice is soft, “I thought he might have been lying.”

“I have been clean for over four years,” Sherlock says tightly, still unable to look at John, hyper-aware of the warm feeling of the legs pressed against his own through the thin fabric of his pyjama bottoms, close as they are from knee to ankle. “He had _no right_ \--”

“No, he didn’t.” John interrupts him gently, unconsciously smoothing his thumb in little circles on Sherlock’s skin, the grip of his fingers on Sherlock’s forearm is firm but gentle, betraying the strength hiding beneath his soft, oatmeal coloured jumper. “No right whatsoever.” On a whim he presses a kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s elbow before releasing his arm and gently tugging the sleeve of his dressing gown back into place, with a gentle pat.

Sherlock snaps his gaze to John, eyes wide. “ _John_.”

John backpedals hurriedly, removing his hand from Sherlock’s wrist, a knot of worry forming in his stomach. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have presumed--”

“No, it’s... fine.” Sherlock shakes his head, eyes very blue and staring at John.

John feels a rush of relief, biting his bottom lip, “Well, if you are sure...”

Sherlock’s fingers find John’s again, lifting his hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I’m sure.”

 

* * *

 

John narrows his eyes at the black car parked on the street in front of 221 and quickens his pace inside. He silently mounts the seventeen steps up to the flat to find the door open and voices drifting out. He pauses on the landing to eavesdrop unashamedly.

“He has no job, nor does he appear to be in any hurry to find one. How _does_ he manage to pay his half of the rent, I wonder?”

“Army pension,” Sherlock murmurs, annoyance clear in his tone. “He’s a decorated veteran.”

“And has the psychological repercussions to go with it,” Mycroft huffs. “You should see the reports from his therapist.” There is a rustle of paper.

“Unnecessary,” Sherlock replies in a dismissive tone. “Unlike you, _I_ don’t require a background check on every person with whom I acquaint myself.”

“What if he has a break from reality or a hallucinatory episode?”

Sherlock heaves a sigh, “The man has a psychosomatic limp caused by traumatic injury, his brain is perfectly fine.”

“On your head be it,” Mycroft says, voice resigned. “And when his pension is no longer enough to cover expenses?”

“I’ve more than enough saved up, don’t be dull.”

“You mean to have him as what, a kept man, then?”

John bristles at the insinuation and decides to make his presence known.

“How I choose to spend my time, and whom I choose to spend it with is _none_ of your concern, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, eyes following John as he comes into the flat.

John takes off his coat and hangs it up, steadfastly ignoring the baleful glare directed at him from the man sitting in his chair in favor of going into the kitchen, where he flips on the kettle and takes down a couple of mugs from the cupboard.

“You needn't take that tone,” Mycroft says mildly, as John pours hot water over the tea bags.

“Apparently, I do,” Sherlock replies. His gaze never leaves John as he comes out of the kitchen, watching as he edges around Mycroft, keeping the man in sight but just out of arm’s reach as he pads over to Sherlock. He blinks in surprise as John offers him a mug of tea. He accepts it, giving Mycroft a smug glance over the rim as John slips into a semblance of parade rest beside his chair. “John, you’ve met my cretinous brother, Mycroft.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Now, really--”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupts, gaze hard. “Apologize to John.”

“I have done nothing to warrant such an utterance.” Mycroft fiddles with the handle of his umbrella.

John gestures rudely at Mycroft. “Don’t bother, Sherlock. He’s not worth it.” He glares, saying evenly, “I think it’s time you left our home. _Now_.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, but he stands, buttoning his jacket and brushing invisible dust off it. “Very well. Good day, Sherlock, Doctor Watson.” He picks up his coat, pulls it on and leaves with a skeptical shake of his head.

John takes a deep breath and slowly relaxes, reclaiming his chair and taking a calming drink of his tea.

Sherlock regards him inscrutably, taking a sip of his own tea then blinking up at John. “You put honey in?”

“Hmm, your voice was sounding a bit hoarse earlier.” John nods, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles.

“You’re not using your cane,” Sherlock points out.

“Yeah, haven’t really needed it the last few days,” John shrugs.

Sherlock blinks again, peering into the depths of his mug, and carefully avoiding John’s steady gaze. “You said ‘ _our_ home’...?”

John wrinkles his eyebrows. “Yeah. I mean, it _is_ , isn’t it?”

“Well, yes... Of course.” Sherlock says slowly. “I simply did not expect you to regard it as such so quickly.”

“Figure I might as well,” John muses, hiding a grin behind his mug. “What with me being your kept man and all.”

Sherlock nearly chokes on a swallow of tea, “You heard that then?”

John hums in acknowledgement, “Thanks though, for defending my honor.”

The tips of Sherlock’s ears turn a bit pink, which John finds terribly endearing. “Yes, well… you are welcome.”

_A few days later..._

 

John looks up from the newspaper as a silver fox-- and where did _that_ thought come from?-- knocks on the door frame and steps into the lounge. John’s eyes widen in recognition, and he sets the paper on the arm of his chair as he stands. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“Is Sherlock in?” the man asks, gaze casting about the room before settling on John. He blinks in surprise. “Do I know you?”

“He’s just popped out for a moment, should be back soon if you don’t mind waiting,” John says. “John Watson, we erm, met briefly the other afternoon.”

“Greg Lestrade,” he starts to offer his hand then seems to think better of it. “Right, now I remember, didn’t realize you knew Sherlock.”

“Is he in trouble?” John asks, unconsciously slipping into a more defensive stance.

Lestrade shakes his head, “No, I need his help.” He frowns, “What are you, his secretary?”

John gives a half grin, “Something like that. Did you try phoning him?”

Lestrade rolls his eyes, “Yeah, be nice if he actually answered.”

John hums non-committally, tilting his head at the sound of footsteps on the stairs just before Sherlock strides into the lounge, “Ah, Lestrade. I see you’ve met John.”

“Yeah, brilliant,” Lestrade says distractedly, offering him a folder. “Not actually a social visit, I need you on a case.”

“Of course you do,” Sherlock murmurs, accepting the folder and perusing its contents. “I suppose this merits my assistance.”

“We’re just waiting on a search warrant, can you come?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says, snapping the folder shut and passing it back. “I’ll need to bring John with me.”

John raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think--”

“Now, really, Sherlock--” Lestrade protests.

Sherlock interrupts them both with a sigh, “John is a doctor, his assistance to me is invaluable.”

“Fine. Be at the Yard in an hour.” Lestrade shakes his head as he leaves the room and clatters down the stairs.

John frowns. “Really, Sherlock. I don’t want you to go to any trouble--”

Sherlock steps closer, unabashedly invading his personal space. “Your experience has given you insights that I do not have, therefore your opinions are invaluable to me. Furthermore... I find it... easier to think when you are at my side. And who knows, it could be dangerous...”

Despite himself, John feels a thrill of excitement shiver through him. “Well, I suppose I’d better come along then, somebody has to watch your back after all...”

Sherlock grins, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to John’s cheek. His voice is a warm caress against John’s skin. “Thank you.”

“Well,” John says, the tip of his tongue flicking over his bottom lip, his voice low and husky. “I have to earn my keep around here somehow, right?”

A dusting of pink appears on Sherlock’s cheeks. “We should go, traffic at this hour can be rather slow going.”

John nods, making no move to step out of Sherlock’s space, not when Sherlock had been the one to initiate it. “Sure.” He leans closer to murmur in Sherlock’s ear, “Then maybe later I can start earning my keep _properly_.”

Sherlock blushes to the tips of his ears and flees. He darts over to retrieve John’s coat, holding it out pointedly, and not quite meeting John’s gaze, though the corners of his mouth tilt up and his eyes shine.

Chuckling, John follows him.

  
  
  



End file.
